Between the Lines

Chapter 6: Playing the game

School was predictable. The same routine, the same glances, the same flirtations. Teenage girls lingered in the doorway, waiting for a chance to catch his eye, and Zayn let them think they were the first to try. He knew exactly what he was doing, turning up the charm just enough to send them off flustered and giggling to their friends. It was a little game he played, a harmless way to break up the monotony. And he couldn't lie—he loved the way they melted under his gaze.

"Morning, ladies," he greeted with a smirk, catching sight of a small group of girls standing in a cluster by his desk. "Can I help you, or are we just here to practice staring today?"

One of them, Jenna, tossed her hair and shot him a bold look, her cheeks pink. "No, Mr. Malik, we're just... waiting for class to start."

"Right." He tilted his head, eyebrows raised. "Well, find your seats before you waste any more of my precious time. You know, that time I spend actually trying to teach you something worthwhile?"

They scattered to their desks, and he chuckled under his breath as he made his way to the front of the room. A few of the guys gave him respectful nods, but Zayn noticed some of them had the same tired look on their faces—the ones who wished he'd stop hogging all the attention.

"Hey, Mr. Malik," one of the guys, Connor, muttered as he walked by. "Nice... shirt today."

"Cheers, mate," Zayn replied with a quick smirk, patting him on the shoulder with just enough force to show he wasn't entirely joking. "Let me know if you need tips. Clearly, some of you lads could use 'em."

A ripple of laughter went through the class, and Zayn leaned back against his desk, crossing his arms with an air of casual authority. "Alright, alright, enough of that. Let's get back to the point, shall we? Believe it or not, I'm here to teach you things that don't involve what I'm wearing or how to style your hair."

He threw a pointed look at the back row, where a few students were whispering, and they quickly fell silent. It was all part of the game—commanding the room with a mix of humor, sarcasm, and just enough attitude to keep them all on edge. And he didn't mind the effect he had, either. He knew they wouldn't forget his class anytime soon.

Later that night, things were different. His other life was quieter, more subdued, but it was no less satisfying. The regulars at the bar greeted him with nods and appreciative glances as he moved behind the counter, pulling together drink after drink with the ease of a man who'd done it all a thousand times.

"Evening, Zayn," one of the regulars, Mark, grinned as he sat down. "Got anything new for us tonight, or are you sticking with the classics?"

"Feeling brave, are we?" Zayn shot back, grabbing a glass and tossing it up in a quick, practiced motion. "Might have something up my sleeve. But no guarantees you'll like it. Last thing I need is you whinging about my 'experimental' phase."

Mark chuckled, leaning back. "Hey, if it's strong enough, I'll drink it."

"Now, that's the spirit," Zayn replied with a smirk, pulling out a few bottles and mixing them together with a flourish. A bit of this, a dash of that, and a twist of lime. He gave it a taste, nodding in approval before sliding it across the bar. "Here. Drink up and let me know if it makes you feel anything close to intelligent."

The others around the bar laughed, a few of them clapping him on the back, and Zayn felt a sense of ease he rarely found anywhere else. Here, he wasn't playing the strict teacher or putting on a front. He was just Zayn, the bartender who could make a mean drink and had a knack for shutting down anyone who got too full of themselves.

As the night went on, he kept the drinks coming, slipping in and out of conversations, sharing laughs and swapping stories. The bar filled up with the usual suspects, all of them with their own problems and stories to tell, and Zayn was happy to fade into the background, just another face in the crowd.

A familiar voice cut through the noise, and Zayn turned to see Claire, one of the waitresses, smirking at him from across the counter. "You know," she said, raising an eyebrow, "you're a lot nicer when you're here than you are at that school of yours."

"Am I?" He shrugged, reaching for another bottle. "Guess that just depends on who I'm dealing with. I get paid to teach, not to babysit a bunch of hormonal teenagers who can't keep their eyes off me."

"Ah, so you've noticed," Claire teased, elbowing him as she leaned against the bar. "Didn't know if you were oblivious or just playing it cool."

Zayn laughed, shaking his head. "Trust me, I know exactly what they're up to. Makes it a hell of a lot more fun, don't it?"

She rolled her eyes but smiled, grabbing a tray of drinks and heading back to her tables. Zayn watched her go, a small smirk lingering on his lips. It was a simple pleasure, this life—a job that kept his hands busy, a place where he could blend into the background and keep his own thoughts quiet.